This morning I took my car into the dealership* for its regular oil change and brake flushing (whatever that is), and as always forgot to bring something with me to occupy my time while waiting.  Lacking any other reading material, I picked up one of the BMW brochures and began flipping idly through it.  Until I came accross this:



and burst out laughing.  I guess it's practical though.  Just last month while visiting home, my mom and I went out to the store and were behind a car with a big dog pacing back and forth in the back.  Both of us kept expecting the car to stop and see the dog go flying head over paws into the front seat.  Unfortunately, the dog managed to keep its balance.  I mean, fortunately.  Yeah.  We weren't gleefully anticipating it or anything.  

*Before you berate me for using dealership service, 3 years free service comes with a MINI.  Yet another reason I love my car.

I should probably be annoyed by the large amount of not-quite-spam ads that are being sent to my email account. They're all from companies who I do actually patronize and benefit from occasional notices about sales, but this time of year they're all trying to get me to give their products as gifts. But somehow, I find it entertaining. It's a contest... who can offer the least exciting gift? Or the most insulting one? Who has to be most creative when turning their product into a gift idea? Victoria's Secret wins for sheer quantity, with an email a day this month. But right now, the frontrunner for sheer hilarity is Equifax, who implores me to "empower my loved ones" with the "gift of financial empowerment", a.k.a. a credit report gift certificate. Hmm, maybe I should just forget about shopping and just do that. Dear family, you just spent this month (or at least a few days) carefully considering various gift ideas before settling on the perfect gift for everyone, including me, and probably put at least one or two things on a credit card. To show my love and appreciation, here's a piece of paper telling you why you shouldn't have done that.

And on a side note, I saw a great commercial today. For ebay, I think. It said, "Don't give a gift that just says 'I love you'. Give the gift that days 'I know you, and I still love you.'" They were talking to my family. :-)

I just got back from Corsica, where I attended the two-week SOLAS Summer School. Yes, I know it's not summer anymore, but that's what it's called. I had a fantastic time... met lots of great new people, networked with some of the leading researchers in my field, and enjoyed my first real European experience. I've put together a few slideshows of all my pictures from the trip.

This shows some photos I snapped at the Institut d'Etudes Scientifiques de Cargèse, where the school was held. Pretty lanscapes, one or two showing real work, and a bunch from the party we had at the end of our first week of lectures and practicals.










On our one day off, we took a boat trip up to the Reserve Naturelle de Scandola. This is a natural reserve that can only be accessed by boat. Lots of rocks. We also stopped at the very small town of Porto and the even smaller town of Girolata. Both are probably very nice in the summer, but mostly closed at this time of year.




Finally, some shots taken around Cargese, the town where the Institut is located and where I spent almost all my time. Again, probably very nice in the summer, but I think the SOLAS students outnumbered the permanent residents the last two weeks. But still a very pretty little town, very quaint and European.



I'd write more, but I'm jet-lagged and lazy, so I'll just let the photos tell all.

Or a shampoo girl?  You're supposed to, right?  How much? 

Despite my love of most things girly: shopping, pedicures, cute strappy sandles, etc., I've never gotten the hang of the hair stylist thing.  I did actually write down the name of the girl who did my hair last year*, so for once I avoided the "Yes, I've been here before, but I don't have a preference who does my hair" situation that always makes me feel like I'm insulting whoever it was who did my hair the last time.  But then I hit the blind panic situation I always encounter when I go to pay.  I payed with a debit card, and the girl processing the payment immediately nailed me with the tip question.  She took my blank expression as a sign that I was struggling with the mental math**, and saved me briefly by yanking out her calculator with a smile and saying, "Oh, here, do you want 15 or 20%?"  She then counted out a few bills for me.  I was then left with the dilemna of figuring out how much to give to the shampoo girl and how much to the stylist, or even if both are supposed to get something.  I ended up just finding the stylist, admitting my cluelessness, and let her take care of it.  So I left feeling like a fool (although a fool with nice new hair).  Which I always do. 

So, someone, help me for next year.  Teach me hair stylist tipping ettiquette. Please?

*Yes, it's been a year since I last got my hair cut.  Perhaps this has something to do with my continued cluelessness.

**Which I didn't take as an insult at all.  I do suck at mental math.  Calculus, differential equations, fourier transforms, wavelet deconvolutions, no prob, but basic arithmetic... just a sec, let me double check that on my calculator.

In retrospect, I should have realized that Murphy had targeted me the night before my travels began. Having finished most of my packing (all but the toiletries I'd need the next morning) and having checked that I had everything I would need in my purse and ready to go, I got ready for bed, set my alarm, and turned out the light. After thinking for a moment about how little sleep I was about to get, I for some reason second-guessed myself on the alarm. So I turned on the light to double check that I had set it for 3:00 am as I intended. Oops! I had set it for 3:00 pm. Thinking to myself how lucky I was to have caught that, I turned out the light again. Then suddenly, another thought popped into my head. I had forgotten to pick up my computer lock from my Guyot office before coming home, and I would need that in Vancouver. That's okay, I thought, I can zip by in the morning on the way to the airport. And so I went to back to sleep, completely unaware of the spirit of misfortune hovering over me.

The morning of my trip, with my alarm ringing out at the proper hour, I woke up not-so-refreshed, showered, and threw the last few items into my suitcase... brushes, shower stuff, check; phone unplugged from charger and in my purse, check; phone charger packed, check. Oh, wait, my computer cord isn't in with the other chargers in my suitcase. And now that I think of it, I don't remember unplugging it when I left my office the day before. Crap, there's another stop I'll need to make; my battery definitely won't last an entire week, I can't work without my computer, and the whole purpose of this trip is to work. So I finished packing and loaded my suitcase and backpack into my car, then headed off to my Sayre Hall office. After running inside and grabbing my charger (sitting in the outlet where I had left it), I hopped back in the car and headed over to my other office on main campus to retrieve my computer lock. With both items in my backpack, I left for the Philadelphia airport, about 15 minutes behind schedule. No problem, I thought. I won't have as much extra time, but I wasn't in danger of missing my flight or anything.

A few miles from the airport, I noticed a little light come on next to my speedometer that I had never seen before. The symbol looked like a circle with waves at the bottom and an exclamation point inside. I knew I was coming up on needing an oil change, so I figured it probably had to do with that. I'd just have to remember to look it up before I went home next week. I parked in the economy parking lot and hopped on the shuttle to the airport. Now, I was used to the Park 'N Fly in New Orleans, where the shuttle would materialize next to your car as soon as you parked, and then take you right to your terminal, so I hadn't budgeted much time for the trip from parking to ticket counter. This shuttle was decidedly slower, and it took another 20 minutes to get to the terminal. So by the time I hopped in the ticket line to check in, I was cutting it much closer than I had planned. Luckily, my flight was delayed, so I was okay. So after waiting in the busy line for about 20 minutes, it was my turn to check in.

This is when I doomed my day. Murphy doesn't strike at random. He looks for days, situations, when there are plenty of things that can go wrong. After all, it's no fun to just cause a few minor inconveniences when you can instead find a situation where dozens of things can go wrong, right? An oblivious girl making a cross-country plane trip on a rainy day following a rainy weekend is a very tempting choice. And if said girl starts her travels by making an abominably stupid mistake, well, who can blame Murphy for sweeping in and gleefully spinning all situations for the worse?

So there I was, standing at the self check-in machine. Here's my credit card, yes, that's my trip, I'll keep my seats, thanks, just one bag to check, and... oh, shit. Slide your passport. Now, I'd like to say I forgot it. But saying I forgot my passport would imply that at some point while planning this trip it crossed my mind that I would actually need my passport. I didn't. And I can't even use the excuse of recent changes in passport laws for traveling to Canada, since my only other Canada trip was post-changes as well. I was just utterly stupid, and my passport was sitting in New Jersey safe and sound and completely unthought-of in the little safe where it always resides.

Being one hour from my flight departure time and an equal distance from my passport (not counting return time), there was no way I was making my original flight. I approached the agent to explain the situation and get on a later flight. The next flight out wasn't until 5:30 pm. Ugh. Resigned, I agreed to that flight, gathered up my stuff and hopped back on the shuttle to my car.

It was raining harder by the time I got back to my car. Suitcase back in, bag back in, and ready to go home again. Oh yeah, that light. I grabbed the manual from my glove compartment, and started searching for the mystery symbol. There it is... "flat tire indicator... comes on in event of sudden loss of pressure... pull over immediately." Oh, that's not good. I get out of the car to investigate, and sure enough, the left rear tire is completely flat.

At this point, at 8:00 am, I realized this was not going to be a good day.

I called my trusty Triple A guy, and an hour later, the spare tire was on. Looking at the original tire, it turns out I ran over a screw, which punctured it cleanly and was still imbedded at a clean 90 degree angle. The AAA guy then warns me that I should get a new tire immediately, since the spare tire can really only go 50 miles. I've learned from other friends' stories that that isn't just a scare tactic, and the Mini's spare tire looked even smaller than other spares I'd seen. I had a little more than that distance just to get home. I asked AAA guy if he thought I could make it to New Jersey, and he said he didn't recommend it, but if I had to I should make absolutely sure to stay under 50 mph. So I made the drive from Philly to Princeton in the middle of rush hour (luckily going opposite of the worst traffic), going a nice steady 50 mph, a good 25 mph slower than I usually go. On a side note, I confirmed the fact that maintaining a steady, not-too-fast speed really does skyrocket your gas mileage; my mpg was on par with my mph for most of the drive.

So, back home, I now gained a passport and lost a car. There was no way I was going to risk driving all the way back to Philly on the spare, and I didn't have time to get a new tire. So Plan B. I checked online to see if there were any flights from Newark to Minneapolis that would get me there in time to make my connection (I can get to Newark Airport by train). Turns out there were four. Great. So I called Northwest Airlines. And was put on hold. And then hung up on. So I called back. And was hung up on. And again. And again. I tried at least 10 times with two different results. Result 1: I told the annoying computerized voice that always makes me repeat things that I had indeed bought my ticket at nwa.com, I would be put on hold, be told that my wait time was greater than 8 minutes, listen to some bad music for 2 or 3 minutes, and then simply get cut off. Result 2: I told the voice that I had not bought my tickets at nwa.com, and I would be put through to a new computerized voice that told me very politely that they were receiving a large volume of calls at the moment and could not speak to me, good-bye.

After two hours of this, I had to make a decision. I could either drive back to the Philadelphia Airport, and hope my tire didn't die, or I could take a train to Newark Airport, and hope I could get on one of the flights from there. I opted for the latter. A twenty-minute walk through the rain later, I got on a train north to Newark. Once at the airport, I went to the Northwest ticket counter and started to explain the situation, and ask if I could get on a flight here. The guy laughed and said he doubted it, since they were looking for volunteers on all the flights to hubs like Minneapolis that day; a quick check showed that each of my potential flights was oversold by at least 6.

Crap. Okay, plan C. Back to Philly. I asked the gate agent if there was a shuttle between Newark and Philly. No, he said, but Amtrak trains went in that direction. So I went back to the rail station. Looking at the map, I saw that Amtrak only went to the 33rd St station in Philly, not to the airport. But it was as close as I could get. So I purchased a ticket for the next train, at 2:30. That should get me there in time, I thought. So 2:30 came. And went. A quick call to Julie, the very polite, informative Amtrak automated voice, who actually didn't make me repeat myself or go through a million menus, told me that the train was running 15 minutes behind. 5 minutes later that was updated to 20 minutes late. But the train finally arrived, and I got on my way to Philadelphia. Again. At the station, I opted for the slightly more expensive cab over yet another train, since relying on schedules hadn't worked very well for me yet. I arrived at the Philladelphia airport cutting extremely close to my flight boarding time (again), but once again got lucky with a delay. So 14 hours after my day started, I finally made it onto a plane. It was a this point that I first contemplated that I was starving; I had only eaten some dry Rice Chex in my second stop home, since I had cleaned out my kitchen prior to starting my trip, and hadn't had a chance to stop since. I then promptly fell asleep (a testament to how tired I was, since I almost never sleep on planes, even on 12-hour flights) for about 45 minutes, neatly spanning the snack and drink service. Figures.

Two hours later, approaching the Minneapolis area, the pilot comes on to say we've been put in a holding pattern. High traffic due to weather? Of course not. That's normal. And this is not a normal day. We're holding because George Bush has been visiting the twin cities, and has chosen this moment to leave and board Air Force One, which means they have to close down the whole damn airport for a while. Right. Of course.

Shutting down an airport on a day where there are already weather problems all over the place does nothing good for schedules. So my next plane, which was supposed to take off at 9:18, is now delayed until 11:00. On the bright side, I finally managed to get some food. Burger King has never tasted so good.

The remainder of the night went smoothly, and at 2:00 am PST, 27 hours after my day started, I finally checked into my hotel room. Fun day.

Apparently, all Yankees fans are self-concious balding men in need of dental hygiene.  At least, this is the only logical conclusion I can draw from the selection of ads YES network chooses to run during all games.  Proactive hair-thickening stuff advertises at least once per inning, and this weird toothbrush-like thing runs a short informercial once or twice a game.  And if you call now, they'll throw in a tongue-scraper!  Seriously... I couldn't make this up.  I would, of course, if I had thought of it, but it seems Yankees fans are even better at insulting themselves than I would be.

Now if only I could find a way to selectively mute Michael Kay...

As an undergrad, I learned that one of the small pleasures in life was receiving mail.  Our mailboxes were right near the entrance of the dorm, and each one had a clear door, so you could always see in advance if there was something inside.  In these days of email, it was always exciting to see something on paper addressed to me.  Even generic love, i.e. junk mail, had a certain appeal, since no advertising was allowed on campus and therefore it probably was at least of vague interest to me.

Of course, once I moved off campus, the majority of my mail turned to junk mail: coupons and tiny local newspapers of no interest to me and dozens of other pointless wastes of very low quality paper.  But the same excitement was still possible when I pulled out a handful of junk and found within it an envelope or two, addressed personally to me rather than "neighbor" or "resident".  Of course, most times said envelope held just another credit card offer, but hey, at least that's confirmation that my credit is still pretty good, right?

In my current apartment, however, checking the mail has become an aggravation.  It involves pulling out a handful of mail, immediately tossing the obvious junk, and then sorting the remaining envelopes into "to be opened" and "to be dropped back into the mailbox with NOT AT THIS ADDRESS written on it because I have no idea who this person is" piles.  And the latter pile is always, always bigger than the former.  How depressing is that?  Apparently, years after these people have moved away (and inconsiderately failed to notify the post office of this), they are  still more popular than me.  Ugh.  Mail sucks.

I'm right back where I was with my undergraduate phone situation.  For two years, I shared a dorm room with the phone number 689-6896.  Very easy to remember.  And very easy to mistakenly call if you forget that on-campus calls only need the last four numbers.  My roommate an I kept a markerboard near the phone, entitled "People who don't live here".  Whenever we received a call for someone other than ourselves, we jotted the name down, or added a new tick if the person was already listed.  And of course, these people received phone calls far more often than either my roommate or I.  Great as a conversation starter.  Not so good for the ego. 

Of course, I suppose this whole post is very pot calling the kettle black.  I rarely make phone calls unless I have something specific to say, and I can't remember the last time I sent something other than a traffic ticket payment through the mail.  You know what, I'm gonna start!  Watch your mailboxes, people, I'm sending random stuff your way!

Almost only one more day! 

I am nerdy in many ways... science nerd, sports nerd, book nerd.  But at the moment, the Harry Potter nerd in me trumps them all.  I'm like a little kid on Christmas Eve.  I will be at the bookstore promptly at midnight tomorrow, ready and willing to trample small children if I must, to pick up my copy of Deathly Hallows.  The forecast says Saturday and Sunday are going to beautiful days... hmmm, I wonder if I could drag my couch outside?

I need to rant. It's either that or I'm going to hurl this computer out the window, and I don't want to do that. It's a really nice computer. The nicest I've ever owned. And it shouldn't be punished for having to display the most asinine code ever.

For the past two months, I've been dabbling on and off with a little problem I came across when getting ready to give my first-year report. The model I've been working with automatically generates some plots when it finishes running, showing each simulated timeseries versus some observations. The plots are monochromatic, and crammed onto one page, and just don't look that nice. So I decided to replot the data on my own, since I had all the numerical results the model was using to make these plots. And that's the problem. I don't know what it's plotting. It's not the numbers themselves (tried that). It's not a normalized version of the numbers (tried that). It's not any number of usual statistical techniques used to adjust two datasets for comparison (tried that).

So I finally had to resort to diving into the source code itself. It's written in Visual Basic, which a) is not an ideal language for numerical modeling, and b) I don't really know. So frustration would probably have set in even if this was nice, clean, streamlined, well-documented code.

It's not.

Now don't get me wrong, it works perfectly, as far as I can tell. Computers don't care about formatting. Don't comment, don't indent, obfuscate to your heart's content, a computer is just happy to read it. But me, I'm a little anal (blame my mom). I like things to look nice, be properly aligned and nicely color-coded. And above all, understandable. Separate different processes with blank lines. Use clear names for your variables and functions. If the equations or algorithms aren't obvious on first glance, there should be a nice little comment telling me exactly what is being done. This code is properly indented, and my editor does the syntax highlighting. That's all I can say.

For the past two weeks, while waiting for GFDL access so I can continue my real work, I've been trying to solve the mystery of the y-axis. I've almost got it. Amongst the 265 files holding 1864 subroutines, I finally managed to locate subroutine that made most of the adjustments and decipher what it did. Simple, really... just take each time series, then take the natural log of each data point, then take the average of these, then divide by the initial simulated biomass that has already been successively overrelaxed toward equilibrium, then raise e to this power, now divide the original dataset by this value and plot versus the simulation results. ?!?!?!?! The worst part is, this only works for 75% of the plots I'm trying to reproduce. There's still a tweak or two hiding from me.

Now I know there is probably logic behind this process. After all, it works beautifully. But really, would it kill them to put in a comment or two explaining why anyone would possibly expect it to? I work with a lot of very smart people. None of them had heard of this before. I contacted the person who wrote the code. He said he couldn't quite remember what he'd done, but he'd get back to me. Still waiting. If you can't read your own code, how on earth are other people supposed to figure it out?

I used to whine about CASS source code. It was long. It was old. It was complex to the point that accompanying manual was over 2000 pages long. But oh, it was impeccably commented. Not a variable went unnamed or unexplained, not a subroutine invoked without a line telling why, not an equation introduced without a reference to its origin. I never thought I'd say it, but CASS, how I miss you.

Okay, rant over. I've managed to waste about a half hour writing this and not working. I feel better now. Thank you all for listening. :-)

..>..>

I've found a new use for my books... The temperature hit near 90 yesterday and today, and I decided there was no way I was going through the summer without air-conditioning (my apartment was built in the 1940's or 50's, nd with the exception of wireless internet, hasn't really been updated since). But installing a window air-conditioner proved to be a little more complicated than I expected. After solving the window- sill- has- a- piece- of- the- frame- that- sticks- up (balanced the thing on it anyway, seems to be strong enough) and the this- thing- weighs- more- than- me problems (roped in some friends), I was finally stumped by the window- is- framed- by- metal- and- I- can't- attach- the- window- lock. So for now, a small sample of my book collection is holding it shut. I think it adds nicely to the trailer park theme, don't you? But I'm not dying of heat exhaustion anymore, and that's all that matters.